


Nothing Here But Love

by suchA_Consequentialist



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
Genre: Christmas, Domestic, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Scrooge is dead to begin with, The book never gives them names and that's why the relationship tags are weird, The wives have names I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 05:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchA_Consequentialist/pseuds/suchA_Consequentialist
Summary: Scrooge has been dead for years. But life goes on.





	Nothing Here But Love

Fred shifts against the counter, trying to find a spot where the handle of a pan isn’t digging into his back. Across from him Betty busies herself with the oven, introducing a new wave of heat into the already muggy room.

When she stands back up her eyes seem to lose focus – steadying on some distant, unreachable point. He thinks for one moment that she is going to stop and say something. But before he can prepare to respond, she wipes at the smudges of makeup under her eyes and begins another bright story about the time Martha tried out for the football team.

Fred doesn’t remember this story, but then he wasn’t around when Martha was in middle school. It feels like someone telling him about a grand sweepstakes he could have won, but never quite actually did. By the time Fred and Anne had met the Cratchits, Martha didn’t need more adults in her life. She just wanted help with college applications and maybe an ally in the fight against curfews.

Fred has always appreciated that Martha accepted two new parents without a fuss. One of her favorite holiday traditions is sharing the time she shoved her siblings in a car and told four grown adults to work out their weird poly shit over dinner, because she had finals coming up and she wasn’t free for babysitting after that night.

It’s the kind of story she can only share in select company, but it never fails to bring a laugh.

Without warning, Betty picks up a plate and whisks it to the sink. Her sudden presence at his side forces him to twist his head around, and he remembers the conundrum in the driveway.

Bob still hasn’t left the car since he pulled in 45 minutes ago.

As Betty runs water over the plates in the sink and prepares to start doing the dishwasher’s job, something in the car finally moves.

If Fred squints, he can just make out the shape of Bob’s hands coming down rapidly on something in front of him – the steering wheel no doubt.

Fred swallows. Beside him, Betty is still talking about the famous tackle Martha made at her first practice. She’s studiously avoided the part of the story where Linda had taken an award-winning photograph from the sideline. It’s usually her favorite part.

“Betty,” Fred interrupts, wetting his lips.

For a moment he thinks she’ll keep talking over him, but she goes quiet as she rummages for a glass from the piles of dishes on the counter.

“Linda is going to be fine. We did the right thing,” he hesitates for the smallest moment before he says, “as her parents.”

With a sudden sigh Betty slams the handle of the sink off and spins toward the island. The sight of a covered surface brings her up short, and she stares helplessly at the glass of water in her hand. The countertop is overflowing with pies and open canisters. With nowhere to put her water, Betty stands frozen.

The smell of pumpkin is overpowering.

“I think we’re having dessert for dinner tonight,” Betty says at last.

“Great,” Fred steps away from the window and rests his hands on her hips, leaning forward to kiss at the flushed skin of her neck, “I’ll go tell him, then.”

For a moment she inhales, as though gathering herself. He wonders if she’s going to volunteer to go out there herself – but then she would have to be ready to discuss her own feelings about the situation.

“Make sure you take his inhaler,” she says at last, before grabbing a can of whipped cream off the counter.

Fred can’t stop a small smile as she begins shaking it aggressively. The force makes her hips jiggle beneath his palms, and he savors the feeling. It’s all he can do to resist staying there behind her, admiring her furious homemaking skills and maybe coaxing her into saying something – anything – about how she feels.

But Bob has been in the car for 45 minutes.

Bob is self-aware enough to know that he is a man who needs company – a man deeply attached to humanity. In his lowest moments, frozen with fear and grief in the wake of Scrooge’s funeral, Bob had insisted on catering to their heartbroken neighbors and friends. They had hosted game nights and movie nights for weeks.

Fred remembers the dark hours of those days more clearly than any recent memory, laying in the Cratchits’ bed with the old windows wide open to the street. The room was stuffy despite the breeze, and Fred appreciates that his uncle had the grace to die in the spring. Bob’s back was slowly relaxing against Fred’s chest and Betty’s arm was around Bob’s stomach, her forearm resting against Fred’s. These were rare moments of peace in the midst of the planning and catering. Anne even found the energy to muster up a smile for Fred over Bob’s back – an intimacy that only grief can bring.

This one time, Bob had insisted on driving alone – taking care of a situation without backup. And now he is stuck in his car.

“Tell our husband,” Betty has begun covering up a pie with foil, “that we’re eating in 15 minutes.”

 

Fred pulls the car door shut behind him, and settles into the passenger’s seat.

Beside him Bob is gasping for air. It’s a familiar pattern: two short breaths and one deep inhale. Soon he’ll choke a little and begin sobbing again. Instinctively, Fred touches the bulge of Bob’s extra inhaler in his coat pocket.

After a moment Bob seems to grab hold of his emotions, and Fred relaxes as his breathing evens out.

The radio is off, but heat blasts at them from the vents. Pulling off his gloves, Fred leans over to turn the keys in the ignition.

In the silence after the engine dies, the bell on Bob’s key-chain rings loudly - jostled by Fred’s hands. He looks down at where the festive red and green ribbons have begun to fray from handling.

The sudden weight of memory holds him still.

“That thing is gonna outlast us at this rate,” he says at last, reaching back to tap at the bell. It responds with another enthusiastic jingle before settling down. For a brief moment he wants to knock it again, but he eventually lets his hand drop down to Bob’s knee.

Bob hasn’t said anything, but at the feeling of Fred’s hand on his knee his shoulders droop.

“I think,” Fred continues, “Scrooge planned it that way. I mean, he loved us – obviously – but I always suspected that if push came to shove he would prioritize the preservation of Christmas cheer over – y’know – anything else.”

There’s a short huff of air that sounds too annoyed to be part of the crying. Fred eases back into his seat and squeezes Bob’s knee.

If Bob can laugh then he can make it out of the car. Bob has always been dependent on good humor.

“Between you and me, I think he replaced money with Christmas spirit. It makes sense, in the way that obsessive people make sense. Even when he had more money than he could ever want, he was grouchy because people were taking his attention away from it.”

“Well what would you know about it?” Bob suddenly snaps, looking up from the steering wheel with a shiny line of snot dripping down to his lip. He’s sneering, and the sight of the expression is so jarring that Fred goes absolutely still.

After a few moments, Fred quietly says, “Very little.”

Almost instantly, Bob’s expression loses any malice. He slumps down even further, and he only moves to grab Fred’s hand before it pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” Fred says sincerely, squeezing Bob’s fingers.

“I’m sorry too,” Bob replies, shaking his head, “You’re – you’re on to something.”

Just as suddenly as he had snarled, Bob laughs, “I was just thinking about him and his - revelation. And I was trying to remember when he ever regressed, or even sounded like he did in the old days, but I can probably count those times on one hand.”

Turning to look at Fred, he says, “I spent a lot of years waiting to hate him again. I’m probably more angry that he never gave me any real reason. He’d apologize and – I didn’t know how not to forgive him. And every time I forgave him I think Linda just got angrier. I should have seen it. I’m her father I should have-”

This is an old speech – the topic well-worn between them. They had only stopped debating it yesterday, when Anne had made the appointment with the rehab center.

Fred turns in his seat so that the hand not holding Bob’s can reach around to cup the side of his face. The touch stops Bob mid-speech, and Fred can feel the wet cheeks beneath his hands go still.

“My uncle was a miserable fucker for almost his entire life, Bob. I spent too much of my own life pitying him or resenting him.”

There is a face Bob makes when he wants to think of the kindest way to tell you something difficult, and he is making it now.

Desperate to side-step any discussion about his childhood, Fred plows on, “But if that horrible old man could become the namesake of my first kid, then I’m sure that our daughter can someday walk out of rehab better than when she went in.”

Bob shuts his eyes at the word ‘rehab,’ like if he can’t see anything it isn’t happening.

Leaning across the space between them, Fred rests his forehead against Bob’s and says, “I can’t think of a better family for her to come home to.”

There is no laughter or fond sigh, and for a brief moment Fred panics. But Bob eventually lifts his head and kisses him soundly on the lips.

They stay that way for a minute or two.

When Fred finally manages to pull away, his voice is rough, “Betty’s made four pies already.”

And for the first time all night, Bob smiles, “If any of them are pecan, Anne will want Betty all to herself tonight.”

“They can have the master bedroom,” Fred grins, pleased with the idea of their wives taking the night off – safe in each other’s company as Bob finds his way out of this very specific mixture of guilt and grief, “I’m keeping you on the couch to watch The Godfather.”

When they finally get out of the car, Fred waves at the kitchen windows, and Betty disappears from view. The wave had been a more somber choice between a thumbs up or a smile, because Bob had only smiled twice and that is a dozen less times than it takes for Bob Cratchit to tell you he’s fine.

In the kitchen Betty greets them with long hugs.

Anne had come home while they were in the car, and Fred gives her a wink as they spot each other across the room. She’s standing in the doorway with a patient smile – waiting for Bob to approach her. At some point during the week Bob and Anne will sneak downstairs just an hour before Fred or Betty are awake, and they’ll sit alone together at the small kitchen table. Fred has never asked what they share with one another that’s so different than the things he or Betty get to hear. It keeps him occupied sometimes, imagining what they must say in private.

Bob drinks a few glasses of water while Betty fusses over which pies should be eaten before the kids get home from the sleepover tomorrow. By the time they’ve each had a slice the clock hands are lining up below midnight.

“Bed, I think,” Anne declares, kissing her husbands and wrapping her arms gently around Betty’s waist.

After they’ve gone, Fred herds Bob into the living room and pours the last of his water glass into the fern in the corner.

“What time are the kids home?” Bob asks, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Fred pauses in the middle of arranging them on the sofa, “Afternoon. Fran is taking them to the zoo first.”

Nodding slowly, Bob leans back on the sofa, settling into Fred’s side. They manage to stay awake for another hour before Bob leans heavily against him – breath steady with sleep. Onscreen, Michael Corleone listens patiently to the ingredients for a good red sauce.

Fred watches the movie and waits for morning.

 


End file.
